A woman was drawing water from a well on the side of the road

Wandering on the outskirts of Pyay, Myanmar, I came across a lone well by the roadside, where fine dust swirled in the air. In this area, there’s no piped water supply, so large earthen jars stand in front of each house, holding the water used for cooking, laundry, and perhaps even for giving pets a bath. Drawing water from the well is, therefore, an essential part of daily chores. In Japan, however, such a scene now belongs to the pages of a nostalgic photo album from the Showa era.

Just as I passed by, a woman was pumping the well’s handle up and down. Her cheeks were dusted with a light layer of thanaka, the distinctive cosmetic of Myanmar, gleaming in the sun and wind as both makeup and sunblock. Barefoot, she stood there working the lever with an oddly cheerful expression—no gossiping neighbors in sight, but the scene felt strangely like a fragment from Japan’s old wellside memories. On the wall beside her hung a hand-painted sign in Burmese, which I couldn’t read. Perhaps it said, “Not for drinking," or “No water drawing at night," or maybe something more entrepreneurial, like "Payment for water accepted later."

When you’re used to water gushing from a tap at the turn of a handle, a well like this can seem almost an oddity. Yet in places without piped water, it’s an entirely sensible way to live—no water bills to fret over, no problems during a power outage. Still, if you asked most modern people to do this every day, they’d probably strain their backs or give up in a few days. Perhaps that’s why the woman’s smile seemed so strikingly resilient, even though she was merely going about an ordinary part of her life.